


one more day

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boys Kissing, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Gets A Cat, Drinking, Getting Together, Haircuts, Healing, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Market Place And Mermaids, Marshmallows, Not Canon Compliant, Smoking, Soft things for Bucky, Sweaters, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 14:36:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19021933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Bucky doesn’t know the song’s name, except that it’s old. Older than him, and he doesn’t think it was a violin piece at first but it’s so beautiful. So tragic. He thinks there were lyrics. Lovers, of course, because all tragic songs are about lovers.





	one more day

There’s no one left for Bucky in this new, broken, rebuilt world. And he’s been a man out of time for as long as he can remembered but for the first time he’s ready to really, truly be done. To hang up the hat and be forgotten left behind.

They’re making it easy for him. He’s forgotten. Was forgotten long before Steve fucked off to his happy ever after. Neither of them really should’ve gotten one anything but a shallow grace in a trench but life fucked them over and that serum... This world doesn’t even need heroes.

Right now, snow falls and it’s the kind of dark that not even the homeless venture into and Bucky is on a ledge. Or a bridge. He can’t remember which and there’s too much liquid courage keepin’ him warm for him to care.

His shoes, heavy leather things with steel enhancements keep surprisingly good traction on the rounded ledge, and he throws his arms out, body swaying as his metal half throws his balance out of whack. He shuts his eyes, tilts his head up, and lets the snow melt against his lashes as he sways. Back, forth, side, side, forth, back, _sway._

The night is so quiet.

So quiet that he can almost hear something.

Bucky’s eyes fly open and he actually almost loses his balance when he realizes he actually _can_ hear something. Music, a violin, if he’s right.

He doesn’t know the song’s name, except that it’s old. Older than him, and he doesn’t think it was a violin piece at first but it’s so beautiful. So tragic. He thinks there were lyrics. Lovers, of course, because all tragic songs are about lovers.

But the more he thinks, the more he imagines two soldiers fighting side by side, one lost to the war and the other to grief.

Maybe it’s not the right story, not the right song, maybe fiction and reality are blurring in his alcohol addled brain, but Bucky finds himself jumping down, landing hard on concrete, and dream-walking his way towards a corner where a kid with a mess of burnt-log curls plays a battered violin like it’s all that’s keeping him upright.

Bucky can see the bloodstains on the strings, barely, in the low glow of a dying streetlamp. He can’t quit watching though, can’t quit listening.

And then the song is over, and the boy, not quite a boy, not yet a man, stares at him and Bucky stares back.

He ain’t got nothin’ but pennies in his pocket but he’s got a sweater that looks a helluva lot warmer than the kid’s shirt so he peels it off and drops it into the case and he walks away, thinking, _okay, another night._

\--

He doesn’t seek the violinist out.

Part of him wants to, _desperately_ wants to. _Needs_ to. But it’s not, things aren’t, he needs time.

He needs that feeling again.

Bucky lives wherever he lays his head. Which is insane, because he has money. He ain’t no Tony Stark, but between money owed him from the government, and money that’s been collecting interest, and money Steve left/paid him (depending on who you asked) he’s not destitute.

Despite his current box. He decides, after walking all morning and well into the afternoon he wants a place. His own place, like he’s never had before, where he ain’t gotta share with folks or worry about waking no-one. Where he can strut naked and not feel like he’s making someone else sin or whatever.

He’s about to walk into a realtor’s place, when he catches sight of himself in a window and he’s shocked. He knows those dead grey-blue eyes, but that’s about all. His hair is past his shoulders, lank, his beard…

His beard probably has birds.

There’s a barber shop he walks into and he ain’t sure they’ll see him but he’s still got cash in his pocket and this place feels like what he used to go to so he shuffles in and tries not to look like a killer.

There’s an older man, grey curls and dark withered skin and hands that don’t look like they can do much anymore who smiles at Bucky with a gentleness that hurts.

He pats a seat, even as the younger men whisper and shake their heads. “C’mon son. Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” He hands Bucky three jars. The first one is so strong it makes him gag. The second one smells like a private who turned him in to save his own honor. But the third, Bucky hands it back.

“I always like charcoal m’self. Sandalwood's a bit strong and ain’t nobody really wanna smell cedar all day.” He tilts Bucky back over a sink, runs a comb through his hair carefully, then turns the water on. “Tell me if it’s too hot,” and then he’s scratching his fingers across Bucky’s scalp. He talks. He tells Bucky about his son and his grandson and his granddaughter. About the neighborhood as he trims the long hair. “Ain’t gonna crop you, cause I think this suits you, but a nice trim, a good clean line.” He tells him about how he built this shop himself. Literally built it with his hands as he lathers his beard and he uses an actual blade. Like what Bucky remembers, gentle scrapes, until he’s got a nice, clean scruff. “Ain’t nothing cuts like this, son. Ain’t nothin. Now look a’ there. That’s a man with a future,” he says, handing Bucky a mirror.

No one says anything about the tears in his eyes as he takes in his clean face, the hair that hangs between his chin and shoulder. He runs a finger through it and his hands don’t catch. When he goes to fish cash out of his pocket, the old man smiles and shakes his head. “First one on the house, son. Come on back though, and Pop’ll take care’ve ya.”

Bucky drops $50 in the tip jar and tries not to cry anymore.

Who knew a haircut and a beard trim could make him feel new.

\--

It helps, he thinks, looking kinda clean. The lady finds him a quiet, private loft real fast.

Money helps too, but as he takes in the bare walls, the exposed ceiling, the old-wood floor, he grins and pays whatever she says. He doesn’t even really care about the amenities. He carefully peels off his boots and socks, runs his toes across the smooth wood, and tries to remember the last time he was barefoot.

He can’t.

“You got a neighbor who plays music. He’s been a problem for some, but he’s good and if you ask, he’ll keep to your hours. It’s his building though, so if that’s an issue…” She trails off and Bucky just smiles at her.

“Ma’am, it’s lovely. Thank you.”

She gives him a curious look, but she smiles as he signs.

Bucky spends the rest of the day getting acquainted with the space. He owns no furniture. But he can already see where he’ll put his mattress. His bookshelves.

He can envision old stools at the bar and maybe even a couch.

A cabinet for his mementoes, for his pictures.

He supposes the kitchen is nice, but he wouldn’t really know. Anyhow the sink runs and the fridge is cold and the stove turns on.

One wall is all windows and the view is mostly just the town, but it’s pretty still, he thinks, watching people below. He’ll still need curtains. And a place to put the clothing he doesn’t own.

He’s got a trash bag he dumps in the corner and reminds himself to find a washer somewhere. Maybe a dryer, but he can string something up to dry ‘em in here.

And then Bucky discovers the shower.

Whoever lived here before must’ve really liked being clean cause the thing could fit a pool and water shoots from all corners. It’s hot though, almost too hot, and Bucky stands there for a long, long time, just enjoying it. At some point he sits on the tile floor and it can’t be the most sanitary thing, but he’s resting against the wall and his eyes are closed and it’s like standing in a storm he knows he’s safe in.

The knock at the door startles him hard enough he cracks his head against the tile, breaking one and he stalks naked to the door.

Violin kid stares at him, stares _lower_ and then says, “You’re hogging the hot water buddy.”

Bucky blushes to the root, all the roots, and nods, then shuts the door and shuts the water off.

\--

He’s within walking distance to a market that’s got fresh shit every day. He still hasn’t done any laundry, so he pulls on the only jeans that don’t reek and a sweater that’s only got holes where his thumbs go.

He doesn’t want to put his boots on, but it’s still cold out and he ain’t real sure how people feel about bare feet anyway.

But the _smells_. Winter; chestnut and nutmeg and clove and allspice. Cinnamon and mint and cherry. They’ve got all kinds of fresh breads they let him sample, honeys fresh from the comb (or, they were in summer but they’re still pretty good).

Spiced wines, mulled wines, he’s not sure the difference, but they all taste like heaven and he suddenly gets why people spend so much time on food.

Or he thought he did, and then he got to a table where they’ve got ham basted in coke and slow smoked and that sounds revolting but Bucky takes a bite and his face must give him away. The couple gives him a half-ham for free and he says, “I can’t eat this all myself!”

“It’ll freeze well, last you a while.”

Bucky thanks them and hurries away before they can see the liquid in his eyes. He buys six handmade quilts, for the mattress he doesn’t own yet, and a dozen candles that won’t smell good burning together but he doesn’t care.

He also buys milk-and-mint soap and a handmade brush just ‘cause it’s shaped like a mermaid and amuses him. The little girl that sells it to him smiles and holds his metal hand and he thinks that shouldn’t feel as nice as it does.

He gets back to his place, _his place,_ and loads his fridge and freezer, sets his candles along the bar and smiles.

Then he notices the mattress in the darkest corner and the paper on it. He picks it up, carefully unfolds it, reads: _no one showers between 1 pm and 3 pm, or after 11 until about 4 am. Use all the hot water you want then._

It’s a nice mattress. One of them fancy ones with the cooling technology and the body conforming or whatever. Much nicer than anything Bucky would’ve paid for and as he lays on it, he has to admit it’s damn pleasant.

Shit, but now he’s gotta get real sheets for it. For now, he curls under one of his quilts and he doesn’t dream, even as rain pelts his window-wall, echoes off a tin roof somewhere, the perfect lullaby.

\--

He hears the violin as he’s getting his mail and tracks it to a room he can’t enter. So he sinks to his haunches and closes his eyes and _listens_. Sometimes, in the middle of a song Bucky half-knows the kid’ll start over. Some mistake only the player could feel. Mostly he just plays his way through a string of songs, no real melody, no real genre.

It’s the best damn concert Bucky’s ever been to, not that he’s been to many.

And then the kid plays a song Bucky knows and he can see the mud and the blood, hear the gunfire and canons and he _bolts_. Hides under his blankets until the shaking stops and it’s 1:30 in the afternoon and all he can think to do is sit in a ridiculous shower.

He does, lets the hot water wash over him, bathes himself in mintymilk soap until his skin is raw and brushes his hair with a mermaid thing.

He’s mostly stopped shaking when he walks to the market, slowly melting snow sloshing under his boots.

The selection is more limited, the people scarcer, but Bucky loves it. He finds fresh mushrooms, mint, so many dried fruits and canned veggies and jams. Lots of twisty and crusty breads too, and he loads his bags down, buys too much smoked meat and just wanders, looking at the trinkets.

He finally buys curtains. And a couch. Bookshelves hand carved from white wood that he’s gonna learn how to make too, and stools from a bar he actually used to haunt.

He buys sheets that cost way too much in the prettiest silver-grey, but they feel damn good against his skin.

He walks a lot. He finally buys something other than his boots to walk in. Dark sneakers, a pair of something called joggers that are tight against his calves.

He finds a small park. Mostly isolated, and it smells like flowers and is constantly buzzing with bees. Sometimes a jogger passes him with a friendly nod, or a dog’ll sniff at his ankle, but mostly he’s able to make his own time.

He lays in the grass and watches the clouds until they are stars and he only leaves because he has a real bed now. A mattress with silver-grey sheets and a soft quilt on top.

\--

They teach him simple meals at the spring market. Sauteed vegetables and seared meats. They show him how to dry his own fruit, how to save his own herbs.

Some of the ladies teach him to plant flowers too, and soon Bucky has a small not-garden in his window.

He finds out he _really_ likes plums, and the lady who sells them always saves him the best of the batch. He pays her back by fixing things around her place, ‘cause it turns out he’s pretty handy, and he makes his own money that way.

He’s not out or anything, but he doesn’t want to risk it.

He goes to Pop’s shop every six weeks, like clockwork. Pop tells him all kinds of new stories every time. About paintings that are alive, and British royalties hiding behind the dead, and museums that don’t exist anymore.

Bucky knows Pop only cuts his hair, and he wants to ask why, but Bucky is no stranger to stories better left untold. Pop doesn’t ever want him to pay, so Bucky always leaves extra in the tip jar.

Sometimes he sneaks Pop moonshine he gets from places he won’t admit too, ‘cause he knows Pop’s family don’t want him drinking.

Somehow they don’t mind the menthols he shares with Bucky. “They think these better than the cigars I used to get. They ain’t got no sense, but if it keeps ‘em away…” He winks at Bucky who just smiles around his cigarette.

“You look good. Better,” Pop tells him mid-summer.

Bucky looks at him confused.

Pop puts a gnarled hand on his shoulder. “That first time you looked like a man one step away from death.”

Bucky thinks about the night before, the ledge and the snow and the almost slip, and he says, “I was.”

They smoke in silence after that, but Pop doesn’t pull his hand away until Bucky stands. “Need a walk home?”

Pop shakes his head and points to a room above the shop. “Be safe, son.”

\--

He adopts a cat entirely on accident. Shithead saunters into his loft one day and curls up right on Bucky’s pillow and won’t leave for nothing.

Bucky doesn’t know the pet policy, so he picks the thing up in his metal arm, noting the nubby tail and half ear and figures quickly he can’t kick it out. It’s pretty anyway, all silver-blue.

Two weeks later he stalks towards the violin room and bangs on the door. The kid opens it, charred-wood curls a mess and eyes bruised from lack of sleep.

“I got a cat,” Bucky announces.

The kid blinks. “You gotta pay a pet deposit.”

Bucky fishes out a wad of cash and sticks it out, and the kid takes it wearily. He counts it, then hands some back. “What’s its name?”

“Her name is Shithead and she’s a queen,” Bucky says.

The kid raises his brow, but he’s smiling softly. “Yeah, ok. Just don’t let her claw anything up too bad.” He reaches out to pet Shithead, and Shithead purrs enthusiastically and Bucky’s a little jealous.

“Also, my uh, my sink leaks and despite it all, I can’t fix it.” he admits.

“I’ll be there around 4,” the kid says.

\--

Bucky buys Shithead a covered bed, a self-cleaning litter box, a water fountain, three kinds of dry food, canned food, a fancy bowl, two scratching post and some kinda toy that’s ‘spose to keep her active.

She ignores the toy for the box, chases the strings of his sneakers and the bags from his groceries, and wants to eat his ham sandwich. Worst of all, when he goes to nap, she curls right next to his face, ignoring the $79 bed he bought. But then she puts her paw on his cheek and she sleep purrs and he thinks it’s probably okay.

They’re both startled by the knock at the door, but it’s 4 and he lets the kid in. “You ain’t got maintenance to do this?”

“I do,” he answers. 

Bucky snorts.

“If you want to put an official order in and wait a week, be my guest. Otherwise lemme work,” he’s told. Bucky raises defensive hands and steps back.

Shithead curls around the kid purring and nuzzling him the entire time, and ten minutes later the sink works just fine, no dripping.

Bucky frowns.

“Don’t be sour, puss, I’ve got experience with these pipes.”

Bucky shrugs. “Don’t call me that.” But he offers him a beer and the kid tilts his head.

”You even gonna ask my age?”

Bucky shakes his head. “You play the violin at all hours in any location, own your own building, and know how to fix a pipe. Don’t think it really matters. Might ask your name though,” he hedges.

“Peter,” the kid says. “Technically I inherited the place, but don’t worry. I’m 20.”

“That’s not the drinkin’ age,” Bucky says. He pops the cap off the bottle anyway.

“Legal for other things though,” Peter tells him, and oh. _Oh._

\--

Fall sucks. It’s pretty and orange and it’s crowded and pumpkin is fucking everywhere. He was okay Memorial day, mostly because he’d been too hungover to really notice.

But it’s Veteran’s day and he can’t tell the gun shots from the fireworks and even Shithead seems on edge.

Peter isn’t here either, busy practicing for some big entrance recital or something.

Bucky hides under his quilts and he burns a candle that smells like marshmallows and he knows he’s supposed to go to Pop’s today but he _can’t_.

Lightening or artillery shells or recoil dances behind his eyes. He’s screaming and he doesn’t know it. There’s blood on his hands his shower can’t wash off and there’s no music to distract him.

His mouth taste like ash.

\--

He hides in his loft for a long time. Long enough it’s real cold when he ventures back out. Someone’s been taking care of Shithead, who sleeps curled against his back most parts not of the day. Peter’s furious. Pop is worried as he cleans him up again. They smoke in silence for a long time, watching slushy rain pile up, and then Pop plants a hand on his shoulder and Bucky knows that look. “Another day, son.”

_All you gotta do is make it another day._

He hugs Pop then, hugs him tight and doesn’t mind the tears this time. Bucky lets them fall until there are no tears left, and takes the pack of menthols Pop offers without argument. 

The market don’t care. They welcome him back and it smells like it did that first time, mostly allspice this time with hints of nutmeg and clove and he finds the mulled wines first. It’s pouring rain, the sound bouncing off the tin roof like the perfect playlist as he sips the warm drink and someone tugs his metal hand.

He looks at the girl who sells mermaid things and she shyly hands him a burlap wrapped bundle. There’s a notebook, with a whole wooden sea on the front, and a pen shaped like a truly terrifying seamonster. Sealady. There’s also some toys for Shithead shaped like fish and sharks and stars.

“So you can write the nightmares away. That’s what I do,” she whispers. “So you won’t be gone so long this time.”

Bucky gives her the poorly whittled cat he’s been working on and she grins so hard it’s gotta hurt. “You’ll get as good as me one day!” She says, and then she’s gone, showing off her trinket.

\--

Peter doesn’t forgive him for a long time. Bucky hangs around his door, listening to his music, angry, furious, _violent_ always. Peter says “You aren’t the only one with demons. The only one lost in time, experimented on. The only one with _too much time_.” And Bucky knows now, how Peter is alone all the time and affords all he does. But he misses him, tries to give him space. To earn his forgiveness.

He gives up on waiting and lets himself in one day, wearing soft sweatpants and a sweater with thumbholes and an apology he can’t quite voice. Peter’s wearing a sweater left in his violin case almost a year ago, and it drowns him.

“I know what you meant to do, that night. I could see you from my corner, even if you couldn’t see me,” Peter doesn’t stop playing, but his song goes softer, goes to the one Bucky heard almost a year ago.

“I played, because I knew I’d never reach you, but music might.”

“What’s this song about?” Bucky asks.

“Soldiers,” Peter says. “Soldiers who loved.”

“But only one made it home?” Bucky needs to know. Peter puts his violin and his bow down carefully, digs his thumbs into his own sweater-holes.

“They loved each other. And one goes home. And one doesn’t. But they find each other again. Lots of time. All throughout history.

“Kinda sad,” Bucky says, stepping close.

Peter shakes his head. “The best kind of hopeful. They know they’re never really alone. Not for long.”

“All that waiting though?” Bucky says. Peter steps closer, fits his hands around Bucky’s face.

“They always find each other again and that’s enough. Sometimes it has to be.” He leans up into Bucky’s space.

“You always gonna find me, Peter?” Bucky asks. He can taste the cinnamon on Peter’s breath.

“When you let me,” Peter answers. And then he kisses Bucky. Hard, desperate, needy. “Let me, Bucky. _Always_ let me.”

Shithead purrs between their legs, but they don’t mind her, gently shoving her away so Bucky can push Peter onto a bed that has a frame, so that Peter can show Bucky who is _really_ in charge.

\--

“I don’t like this,” Peter grumbles.

Bucky is standing on a ledge, looking over the city. It’s snowing, cold, and the kind of dark the homeless avoid.

But he is sober, and his hair is in a bun and his sweater is thick and warm and the holes for his thumb are _meant_ to be there.

At home, he’s got a cat curled on his pillow, on a mattress that’s too fancy covered in silver-grey sheets in a loft he shares with a kid who just turned 21 and will look it for a long long time.

Their home smells like plants, like marshmallows (Bucky has sixteen of those candles and Peter can fight him.)  He has a date with Pop every six weeks for his hair and beard, and every weekend for a smoke neither of their families approves of.

He wakes up to music, sometimes sad, sometimes gleeful, always beautiful and he spends too long in a shower that sprays him from every angle.

He knows everyone at the market, and there’s a little girl helping him with his woodwork and a lady who saves him plums and men who like to tinker with his arm.

He likes it when it rains on tin roofs, and the smell of too many flowers and fresh mown grass.

He likes Peter warm against him and cinnamon morning breath and a cat that owns their space despite everything. He hates fall, and he’s never gonna be sober on Memorial day, but there’s a lot of other little things he likes, and they make up to a whole big experience he thinks is called life.

“I’m not gonna fall, Peter. I gotta make it one more day,” Bucky tells him.   
  
“Why’s it always ‘one more day’?” Peter asks, curious.

“‘Cause you never know what that one more day might bring. In fact, it might bring its own one more,” Bucky answers.

But he hops down, sneakers squeaking in the snow and he kisses Peter. He grabs his cold hand, slips his thumb through the hole and says, “Let’s go home. But I wanna stop for fairybread.”

Peter rolls his eyes, kisses him again, and indulges him.

 


End file.
